A Cold and Broken Hallelujah
by Baby-Cellophane
Summary: This is a subplot that was cut from "Esmerelda's Choice" and "Sins of the Father." Pierre discovers his sexuality and struggles to deal with being gay in medieval France. Rated M for sex and violence.
1. Prologue, 1505

**Author's Note:**_ this is a subplot that I cut from both "Esmerelda's Choice" and "The Sins of the Father." It just didn't fit in to either story, and would have made them more complicated than need be, but I really liked this particular idea, and I wanted to write about it. In "The Sins of the Father," one of my reviewers (Sunrise19) figured out that Giovanni's friend, Pierre, is gay. This is basically a short story about Pierre attempting to deal with the fact that he's in love with his best (male) friend._

* * *

"_Love is not a victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah." – Leonard Cohen_

**PROLOGUE, 1505…**

He stared up into the darkness, listening to Theresa's steady, even breathing. His hand throbbed; the bandage was itchy. He sat up slowly, glancing down at Theresa as he did so. She stirred, but did not wake. Pierre's eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and lighting a candle would only wake Theresa. He stared down at the bandage on his hand, squinting at it. The cut had not been a deep one, and the blood had not seeped through the clean white bandage. It itched, but he knew better than to scratch it. Scratching the wound would only irritate it.

He lay down and closed his eyes even though he knew that sleep would not come. He felt Theresa's shoulder brush against him, and he opened his eyes. Theresa moved in her sleep, curling up into herself, unconsciously moving away from him. He supposed that he should feel offended, that he should be upset. She was his wife, but she did not want him near her. Even in sleep she shied away from him. He didn't care. In time, she would grow to love him, and he her. Time and patience were all they needed, and Pierre had plenty for the both of them.

He closed his eyes. He knew that in time Theresa would grow to care for him, that she would eventually give herself to him, and this bothered him more than it should have. He'd known, he'd always known, that they would make love; as a married couple, it was practically a requirement. He did not find himself attracted to her, though, and he wondered if he would be able to function properly when the time came for him to make love to her. If he was a terrible lover, what would she say? Would she tell anyone? She was a woman, after all, and everyone knew how women gossiped. Who would she tell, and what would they think?

Pierre rolled over, taking care not to brush against Theresa. He thought of Giovanni and Katarina. They were asleep now, cradled in each other's arms. He found himself thinking of Giovanni's thin, muscular arms, and he tried in vain to wave the thoughts away. It was wrong to love Giovanni the way he did. It was wrong and unnatural, and he could very well die because of it. The townspeople would burn him at the stake. His own people, the Gypsies, would not be any more merciful; if anything, dying at their hands would be worse. He'd be stoned to death.

His mind continued to wander, and he let it. He found himself thinking of the soldier now (his soldier; he'd always thought of the man as _his_ soldier). He wondered if his soldier ever thought of him. He doubted it. After all, his soldier was tall and handsome and married to a pretty young woman. They led a normal life. Still, Pierre wondered if he ever lay awake beside his pretty wife and thought about him.

**…END OF PROLOGUE**


	2. Seven Years Earlier, 1498

**1498…**

There was something darkly thrilling about stealing. Pierre could not quite identify the feeling that it stirred within him, but he liked it. There was a certain rush that came with selecting a target and robbing him or her. He liked it. He wanted to do it. He had no desire to stop, and he knew deep down inside that he couldn't even if he did want to. It was like an addiction. It made him feel, for lack of a better word, alive.

He had been caught a handful of times in Paris, but he had never been punished for it. He made up excuses, breaking down into tears when his targets apprehended him. The excuses were simple ones – a sick mother, a dying sister, a cruel father who beat him if he didn't come home with money – and they worked. He was young, and people took pity on him because of it. He returned their coin purses, making sure he looked thoroughly ashamed of himself and promising never to do it again.

Lyon was not terribly different from Paris. The only difference was Pierre himself. He was growing up. He no longer looked young and small and innocent. He looked like a teenager, like a young man who knew better than to steal. He couldn't break down and cry if he was caught; it would look too fake, it wouldn't gain any sympathy. He would be punished if he was caught, but he just couldn't stop.

Marie had stopped, had made a clean break of it. He'd always suspected that stealing didn't thrill her as it did him. Besides, her job had been an easy one. It was her job to distract his targets, to rush at them and tug on their sleeves, aggressively begging for coins. They were too busy brushing her off to notice that he was robbing them blind, and by the time they did notice their missing purses, he and Marie were long gone.

He wondered if he stole because his father had been a thief. Was theft something that could run in the family, like hair or eye color? Pierre's memories of his father were dim and jumbled, like puzzle pieces that refused to stick together. He imagined his father as a tall, dark-haired man who was always smiling and laughing. Everyone said that he was the spitting image of his father; Pierre sometimes stared into reflective surfaces, wondering where he ended and his father began.

He hated lying to his mother, but she would be furious if she knew that he hadn't stopped stealing. She barely seemed to notice him anyway. She certainly didn't seem to realize that he was slipping the money he'd stolen into her purse every night. She'd changed drastically since leaving Paris. Something had shifted inside of her, transforming her almost instantly. She seemed distracted, as if she couldn't turn her thoughts off, as if she was lost inside of her own head. She nearly always smelled of wine, and she woke in the middle of the night gasping and crying. She would not tell Pierre what was wrong. She would not tell anyone what was wrong.

He supposed that stealing distracted him from whatever was bothering his mother. He told himself that the money was helping, that because of him, his mother and sister could eat. He told himself that he would not get caught, that he'd had far too much practice. He chose his targets carefully, watching them from a distance before moving in. He was watching a man now; the man was tall, with blonde hair. He was wearing a dark brown cloak, but Pierre could see the coin pouch hidden in its folds. He brushed past the man, reaching with his left hand and deftly taking the pouch.

He felt the man's hand grab him, his fingers circling his wrist, and his heart nearly stopped. For an instant, he did not know what to do. The man was gripping his wrist, nearly cutting off circulation; Pierre glanced up at the man, unable to even think of an excuse. The man was staring at him, his blue eyes steely and harsh, and he began to move, pulling Pierre along. Pierre followed, moving as quickly as he could. "I'm sorry," he said, his throat unfreezing, "I didn't – I mean, I need to eat – "

"Be quiet," said the man. Pierre realized that he was being led into a narrow alley behind a shop. The man shifted his shoulders, and the cloak moved. He was wearing a soldier's uniform beneath the cloak, and Pierre felt his stomach clench painfully. This man was a soldier; he would be merciless when it came to punishment. He would cut off Pierre's hand, or, oh God, maybe even kill him. Would he die for attempting to rob the wrong man? Pierre twisted now, trying to escape, but the man's grip was firm.

"I'm sorry," said Pierre. The man shoved him now, slamming him against the wall. He grabbed Pierre's other wrist, pinning both of his arms to the wall. He was staring at Pierre's hands, examining his thin fingers. "Please, sir, have mercy on me. I haven't eaten all day – "

"I said be quiet." The soldier continued to stare at Pierre's hands. He was relatively young, not more than twenty. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and there was something about his appearance that reminded Pierre of Giovanni. This was probably how Giovanni would look when he grew up. Despite the sounds from the marketplace, the silence between them was thick and agonizing. Waiting for whatever cruel punishment the soldier was dreaming up was the worst of it, and Pierre squirmed uncomfortably. The soldier's grip on his wrists was too tight. "You have wonderful hands," said the soldier finally, "it would be a shame if you lost one." His grip seemed to loosen slightly. "I'm sure you could put them to better use."

"I – I haven't got a trade," said Pierre. The soldier ignored him and brought his left hand close to his face, examining his palm and fingers as though something was written on them. "I – I'm sure I could try – "

The soldier's eyes shifted, and he moved suddenly, placing Pierre's hand between his legs. Pierre felt something hard beneath his palm. He suddenly realized just how close the soldier was to him. He stared at him, shaking his head. Was he being molested? Was it even possible for a boy to be molested? Pierre thought that it only happened to girls; he'd heard horror stories about soldiers who'd had their way with Gypsy girls before, but never with boys. "I've never – I mean, I don't know – "

"Oh come now, don't tell me you've never played with yourself before?" the soldier smirked at him. Pierre could feel himself blushing. "Just do what you usually do with yourself."

Perhaps if he did this, he wouldn't lose his hand. Perhaps this would be his punishment for stealing, and it wasn't that bad. It could certainly be much worse. The soldier let go of him for a brief moment and undid his trousers. He looked a great deal like Giovanni; he could probably pass for his brother.

Lately Pierre had begun to notice things about Giovanni, and on several occasions he'd been nearly overcome with the sudden desire to kiss him. He knew that it was wrong, that he was supposed to feel this way about girls, not boys. He couldn't help it, though. He found himself staring at Giovanni, wondering what it would be like to kiss him, to run his fingers through his fine blonde hair. He touched himself and thought of Giovanni, and though it was wrong, he enjoyed it.

He thought of Giovanni while he touched the soldier. The soldier groaned, gripping his shoulder. He leaned in and kissed him, and Pierre did not turn away. He closed his eyes and imagined Giovanni, and clumsily kissed the soldier back. He felt the soldier's hands undoing his trousers, felt the soldier touching him, and he ignored the voice in his head telling him that it was wrong. It felt good. Despite the wrongness of it, it felt so good. The soldier's hands were gentle, and this surprised Pierre. He felt the pleasure building up within him, and he wanted more. Touching, being touched, the whole thing felt amazing. He climaxed, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He felt something hot and wet on his hand, and he knew that the soldier had climaxed at the exact moment he had. He wiped his hand on the wall behind him, panting, watching as the soldier tugged his pants back up.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Pierre shook his head, pulling his own trousers up. He suddenly felt dirty and ashamed. True, he'd avoided a harsh punishment, but he'd done it through sin. He'd essentially whored himself out. Was that really any better? What would his mother say if she knew that he'd allowed another man to molest him and that he'd enjoyed it? God, how could he even look her in the eye after what had just happened? He stared at the soldier. The soldier didn't seem bothered at all. He was adjusting his cloak nonchalantly, as though nothing had happened between them. Pierre wondered if he should say something, but he really had nothing to say.

"I'd better not catch you stealing again, little thief." The soldier's tone was a playful one, and he touched Pierre's shoulder while he spoke.

"No, sir," he said.

"Good." Much to Pierre's surprise, the soldier leaned in and kissed him. It was a quick kiss, not like the clumsy, passionate kisses they'd shared a few moments ago, but it was a kiss nonetheless. Pierre watched him as he turned and left. He leaned against the wall, wondering what had just happened to him and how he could ever face his mother again.


	3. Still 1498, Part I

STILL 1498…

If the experience with the soldier had changed him, then no one seemed to notice, and Pierre was grateful. He helped his mother cook, ignoring the wine on her breath as he peeled vegetables. Marie sat beside him, one of her dolls in her lap, fumbling with a potato. He watched her, suddenly realizing just how smart she actually was. She had been smart enough to stop picking pockets before getting caught. He wondered briefly what the soldier would have done if he'd caught her instead, and the thoughts made his stomach knot painfully.

Marie was twelve. She was beginning to grow up. Even though she still played with dolls, even though she slept every night clutching her favorite one, she was changing from a girl into a woman. If she was caught stealing, she'd lose her virtue instead of her hand, and this terrified Pierre. He wondered now what would happen to him if he was caught again. What would the soldier do to him the next time? The fact that the soldier had touched him – and that he'd enjoyed it – was confusing and frightening. Being molested was supposed to be a painful, shame-filled, horrific experience…but perhaps Pierre hadn't actually been molested. Was it molestation if one enjoyed it?

The thoughts were too confusing, and he desperately wished that he could ask someone. Someone had to know the answer, there had to be at least one person who could tell him how he was supposed to react. But who could he tell and what would they say? If a girl was molested, she could go to anyone for comfort; if it had been Marie instead of him, his mother would be sitting with Clopin right now plotting the soldier's death. Marie was a girl, she was defenseless. As a boy, Pierre was expected to be able to protect himself. He should have been more careful, he should have gotten away, he should have called for help, and above all, he should not have enjoyed it.

He couldn't tell anyone, and this bothered him more than the fact that he'd enjoyed the soldier's touch. He would be asked why he had allowed it to happen, why he'd liked it, and he'd be forced to admit that he harbored unnatural feelings for Giovanni. He'd be put to death, probably right alongside the soldier who'd touched him. Giovanni would be part of the crowd; he'd probably be the one to hurl the first stone.

~xXx~

It pained him to watch Giovanni with Katarina. Giovanni looked at her with tenderness in his eyes, and Katarina seemed to notice. She smiled at him, brushed her hand against his, and Pierre saw the way Giovanni's eyes lit up when she did this. It filled him with envy and almost made him hate her. He hoped desperately that he did not look at Giovanni the same way; if Giovanni ever saw, he'd surely hate him for it. Giovanni, however, seemed too distracted by Katarina.

Pierre had overheard the adults talking about it. Katarina's mother thought they made a sweet pair, and she hoped that they would marry. The idea only made it clearer that Giovanni would never love him, and this saddened Pierre.

He watched them now. They were racing back and forth across one of the fields. Katarina, as usual, was winning; it looked as though Giovanni was chasing her. Pierre stood up and approached them now. They paused, panting, but included him in the game anyway. Pierre hated the idiotic running game they always played; he was still shorter than Katarina and Giovanni, and they outran him with ease. Still, playing the game would distract him, would take his mind off of the incident with the soldier.

"All right," said Katarina, catching her breath, "the first one to reach the woods wins." She glanced over at Pierre and Giovanni. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Giovanni. He grinned at her. "One…two…go!"

They took off, and though Pierre was running as fast as he could, he still lagged behind. He pushed himself, struggling to at least reach Giovanni. Even in a long, loose-fitting skirt, Katarina was ahead of them both. She glanced back over her shoulder, smirking at Giovanni. "Looks like I'll win again!"

Giovanni suddenly sprang at her, grabbing her by the waist and tackling her. They fell to the ground laughing, and Pierre felt himself slow down. Katarina was giggling; Pierre could see Giovanni tickling her ribs. "Stop it!" she gasped between bursts of laughter.

"Only if you say that I won."

"You're cheating!" Katarina giggled. She twisted, trying to wriggle away from him. "Come on, stop it! I can't breathe!" Giovanni stopped reluctantly, and they lay there, giggling and trying to catch their breath. Giovanni was still lying on top of Katarina. He seemed to realize this, to see the impropriety of it, and immediately stood up, blushing. He helped Katarina to her feet.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Katarina shook her head, "for what, cheating?" She was smiling. She turned and was about to begin running again, but Giovanni reached out and grabbed her hand. Pierre watched as Giovanni leaned in and kissed her. It was a quick, almost chaste kiss; Giovanni's lips only brushed Katarina's for a second. Katarina was blushing, winding a lock of her short hair around her finger. Pierre turned away. If Giovanni kissed her again, he did not want to see it.

He started to walk away; Katarina and Giovanni did not seem to notice him at all, and this made him glad. He found himself wanting to cry, and he bit his lip in an effort to keep the tears back. He should feel this way about Katarina, not Giovanni. It was wrong to want to kiss another boy. It was not normal. It seemed, though, that the more he fought the feelings, the stronger they became. Pierre found himself thinking of the soldier, remembering how good his touch had felt.

~xXx~

He did not venture back into Lyon immediately, despite the temptation to. Part of him wanted to see the soldier again, wanted to experience his touch, his kiss. The other, more rational part of him was vehemently against this, but in the end, he ignored it.

There was a narrow alley behind the shoemaker's shop, and Pierre headed there first. The garbage bins were usually full of scraps of leather, or even broken, discarded shoes. Summer had faded into autumn, and autumn would not last long; soon it would be cold, and he and Marie needed new shoes. He had found one small shoe and was searching for its mate. It was not in bad shape, it could be fixed, and it would probably fit Marie.

"That shoe would never fit you, little thief."

He had been too distracted to hear the footsteps, and he turned around as quickly as he could. The soldier was standing behind him, towering over him like a giant. Pierre's legs seemed to freeze, and though he wanted to rise, he couldn't. He gripped the shoe tighter. "It's for my little sister," he said. Much to his surprise, the soldier knelt beside him. Even kneeling, the soldier seemed to loom over him, and he slid closer, forcing Pierre to shuffle backwards, into the pile of discarded, broken shoes. "I'm not stealing," he said.

"No," said the soldier, "it seems like you've seen the error of your ways."

"Yes, sir, I have."

The soldier smirked at him. He stood up. He was resting his hands on his belt buckle, drumming against it with his fingertips. "I'm not so sure." He undid the belt and started to pull his trousers down. "Open your mouth."

"What?"

The soldier rolled his eyes. "There's no need to pretend you've never done this, little thief," he said, "come on, open your mouth."

Pierre stared at him. "I don't – I've never – " he shook his head, too flustered to think properly, let alone speak. "I don't know what to do."

The soldier grabbed him, cupping the back of his head, and pulled him forward. "It isn't difficult," he said, sounding irritated, "just don't bite down." Pierre swallowed, then took a deep breath and opened his mouth. "Ah, that's more like it." He shut his eyes. His jaw ached; the man felt too big. He moved back and forth, holding the back of Pierre's head, preventing him from jerking away. "Come on," he said, "use your tongue."

For a fleeting moment, Pierre was tempted to bite down as hard as he could. What would the soldier do to him if he did, though? Would he kill him? Even if Pierre ran, would the soldier chase after him? Would he search the Gypsy camps until he caught him? Pierre gagged; it felt like he was choking, like he couldn't breathe, and the soldier suddenly let go of him. Pierre opened his eyes, relieved as the soldier pulled out of his mouth. "Stand up," the soldier was saying. He sounded angry. He was pulling his trousers back up, glaring at Pierre. "Come on, little thief, on your feet."

Pierre rose slowly, his legs shaking. "I'm sorry."

The soldier did not reply. He merely reached out and grabbed Pierre's belt, undoing it. Pierre watched as the soldier knelt before him; he wasn't even sure of whether or not he wanted to try and run away now. "I'll teach you," said the soldier.

Pierre gasped; it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He'd had no idea anything could feel this good. He looked down at the soldier, and for an instant, his bent blonde head looked like Giovanni's. Pierre closed his eyes, reaching down and stroking the soldier's head. His hair was soft, and Pierre groaned. It felt good, and this time, there was no voice inside his head screaming that it was wrong and sinful. He thought about Giovanni. Giovanni, beautiful, golden-haired Giovanni, floated before his mind's eye, and it was too much for him. He climaxed, and the energy seemed to leave his body. He slumped against the wall, struggling to catch his breath, fumbling with the buckle on his belt.

"It's your turn now, little thief," said the soldier, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "On your knees."

Pierre obeyed him, his legs still trembling. He watched as the soldier undid his pants and opened his mouth submissively. He closed his eyes, moving his lips and tongue the way the soldier had, trying to mimic him. He heard the soldier groan, felt his fingers winding through his hair, petting him as if he was a housecat. "That's it, little thief," whispered the soldier. Pierre ignored the dull pain that was flaring up in his jaw. He could still see Giovanni in his mind's eye; pretending that he was with Giovanni was remarkably easy.

His mouth was suddenly full of something hot and foul-tasting, and he jerked his head back. He turned and spat, retching and dry-heaving onto the ground. The taste – oh God, the taste was beyond awful – seemed to refuse to leave his mouth. "You're not supposed to spit it out." The soldier sounded annoyed, and Pierre looked at him. He was re-buckling his belt with the same nonchalance as he had before, as if nothing had happened. He looked at Pierre now, and Pierre could see the irritation in his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

The soldier shrugged. He reached for a canteen in his belt and handed it to Pierre. "Here," he said.

Pierre took it and was surprised to find that it contained wine. He had thought that soldiers were prohibited from drinking while on duty. He took a long swallow, letting the sweet liquid wash away the foul taste. "Thank you." He handed the canteen back to the soldier. The soldier took it from him wordlessly and drank. Pierre wiped his mouth, noticing for the first time that he was still holding the shoe he'd picked up for Marie. He stared at it.

The soldier patted his head, and he looked up, startled. "I'll see you later, little thief." He turned and left, and Pierre watched him go. He stared after him, even as he left the alley. Pierre turned and looked down at the shoe again, suddenly feeling filthy. He turned back to the pile and began searching for its mate, desperately trying to ignore the dirty, guilty feeling that was slowly consuming him.


	4. Still 1498, Part II

**STILL 1498…**

The weeks passed, and the moments that he shared with the soldier (his soldier, his beautiful golden-haired soldier) increased. When he was with the soldier, he could forget about Katarina and Giovanni, and the way they looked at each other. She was all Giovanni would talk about; his incessant adoration of her only reminded Pierre of his own feelings. He had always known that Giovanni could never – would never – love him. Seeing him with Katarina, seeing him hold her hand and smile at her, only made Pierre more keenly aware of this fact. He could no longer daydream or pretend that one day Giovanni would kiss him. It would never, ever happen.

He never mentioned Giovanni to the soldier. He never talked about anything with the soldier. He met him in back-alleys, and he let himself touch and be touched. The horrible feeling of guilt only increased. The wrongness of each touch, each kiss, plagued him. His mother still smiled at him when he came home each day, his little sister still kissed him on the cheek before she went to bed; they had no idea, and this bothered him even more. If they knew, if they ever found out – if _anyone_ ever found out – they'd disown him immediately. He'd be exposed and handed over to the Council of Elders. He'd be tied to a stake and left at the mercy of the crowd, and he had the horrible feeling that Giovanni would be the one to hurl the first stone.

"Here." The soldier handed him a large brass key.

Pierre stared down at it, turning it over in his hands. It felt smooth and heavy. "What's it for?"

"The room with the red kerchief tied to the knob," said the soldier. He nodded towards the mouth of the alley. The street was not visible from where they stood, and Pierre shifted, peering out into the street of unknowing passersby. "There's an inn across the street called The Black Cat." Pierre could not read, but he knew the place by the huge sign with the large black cat painted on it. He watched as the soldier left the alley, brushing past him. "I'll be there for a few hours, little thief. I hope to see you."

Pierre did not watch him leave. He stared down at the key in his hand, then sighed. No, he would not go up to the room. He would not subject himself to the shame and guilt that always followed the soldier's touch. He would never do it again. He would go home, and he would find Clopin, and he would tell him that he'd been molested by a soldier. He would lie about it, of course; he would not tell Clopin that he had enjoyed it. He would weep like a victim, the soldier would be killed, and it would all end.

He stepped out of the alley, still gripping the brass key, and looked around. He could see Katarina and Giovanni on the other side of the marketplace. He froze, watching them. They obviously hadn't seen him; they were laughing, holding hands and staring into each other's eyes. Giovanni's eyes were full of love and tenderness, and he touched Katarina's cheek, brushing a lock of her blonde hair out of her face. He kissed her, his lips touching hers briefly and chastely. Pierre felt his throat tighten, felt the familiar stinging sensation in his eyes that preceded tears, and he squeezed the key even tighter.

Katarina and Giovanni did not see him as he crossed the street and entered the inn.

~xXx~

His memories of the Black Cat Inn were fuzzy and scrambled. He was not entirely sure of how his clothing had come off or how he'd gotten into the bed. He lay on his side, struggling to remember _exactly_ what had happened. He felt the soldier move, felt his lips brushing against the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispered.

"I'm fine," said Pierre. His own voice sounded foreign, like a stranger's. His mother would know this time. Surely she'd be able to see it when he returned. She'd look at him, and she'd know, and she'd be furious.

The soldier kissed his neck and shoulders. His lips were smooth and gentle. "I care about you, little thief," he whispered. The soldier's kisses grew more frequent, more passionate, and he nudged Pierre onto his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, Pierre could see the table and chairs by the bed; he could see the empty wine bottles on the table, the orange peels and peach pits, the crumpled bits of paper that had once been wrapped neatly around small squares of chocolate.

Pierre closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. The pain felt familiar, and he gripped the sheets beneath his palms. The soldier kissed his neck and shoulders, touched him, and though the pleasure grew slowly inside of him, the pain did not fade away completely.

~xXx~

It hurt to sit down, but he sat anyway, shifting and squirming and enduring the pain as best he could. His memories of the Black Cat Inn were still jumbled and unfocused, but he had stopped trying to clarify them. Not knowing what had happened was easier. The confusion seemed to lessen the guilt. Besides, the event clearly hadn't changed him, at least, not physically.

His mother seemed more distracted than ever. She picked at her food, pushing it around on her plate. Marie was staring at her, her small dark eyes full of concern and fear. His mother would not look at Marie. It was as though acknowledging Marie would mean having to answer the questions that she undoubtedly held. He watched as his mother got up from the table and left the small house, mumbling something about fetching laundry. Marie turned to him, putting down her fork.

Something is wrong, she said, Mama is different.

"She's fine," said Pierre. He had not told Marie about the nightmares that seemed to plague their mother on a nightly basis. He had not mentioned the sudden abundance empty wine bottles either. Marie was young. She did not need to know about this, and besides, there was nothing she could do anyway.

Marie shook her head. No, she said, something is wrong.

"She…she misses the Court of Miracles," said Pierre. "We…we had to leave Father behind, you know. She probably misses him."

Marie did not reply. She stared at him as if trying to decide whether or not to believe him. For as long as Pierre could remember, his mother had laid flowers on his father's grave once a week. He and Marie had always accompanied her, standing solemnly at her side while she cleared away the withered bouquets and replaced them with fresh ones. He knew that Marie could not remember their father, and his own memories seemed to fade as he grew older.

He reached out and took Marie's hand, squeezing it. "She just needs to get used to Lyon." Marie squeezed his hand and nodded. "Here," he pushed his mother's half-eaten dinner towards Marie, "you can finish it." Marie started to shake her head. "She doesn't want it," said Pierre, "come on, you're growing. You need it."

Marie pointed at him. You're growing too, she said.

Pierre picked up his fork and speared a potato. "We'll share." He poked at the food, only eating a few bites. He let Marie eat the rest. She ate quickly, staring at the door the entire time, waiting for their mother to return.

The door opened slowly, and their mother entered. She was holding a woven basket, balancing it on her hip. "I'd forgotten about the laundry," she said, smiling. Pierre could tell that her smile was forced, but as far as he knew, Marie couldn't. He helped Marie clean the supper plates. They helped their mother fold the clean clothes, moving together in silence.

He turned away politely, granting Marie her privacy as she changed into her nightdress. He wished that the house had more than one room, but he knew that he was lucky just to have shelter. If his mother knew about the soldier, what Pierre had let him do, he'd be out on the street in an instant. Marie hugged him and kissed him goodnight, and he watched as she did the same with their mother.

"Mother, what's wrong?" he'd waited until Marie had turned away. With her back to them, she couldn't read their lips and had no idea that they were even talking.

"Nothing, Pierre. I'm just tired." She climbed into her own bed now, blowing out the candle as she did so.

~xXx~

He could hear his mother crying, and he opened his eyes. He turned towards her bed, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Moonlight seeped through the cracks in the walls, casting narrow beams of thin white light across his mother's bed. She was sitting up, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. What if she _did_ know about the soldier? What if she'd somehow found out? What if she was weeping because of him and what he'd done?

"Mother?" he climbed out of bed slowly and made his way over to her. She looked at him, startled to see him awake, and used the bed sheet to wipe her eyes. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "It was just a dream, Pierre," she said, "go back to sleep."

He sat down next to her, squinting in the darkness to see her properly. She would not look at him. She knew. She knew, and his mere presence sickened her. He had known that this would happen, that his mother would find out and ultimately disown him. He found it strange that she hadn't handed him over to the Council of Elders. Maybe there was some part of her that still loved him, despite his unholy actions. Maybe she wouldn't let them execute him. Maybe he could just leave Lyon, get up and walk away. Maybe she would help him flee.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I'm so sorry – "

She hugged him suddenly. He leaned against her, closing his eyes, taking in the strong smell of wine that she now carried with her. "No," she said, "no, Pierre, this isn't your fault." She stroked his hair. "You're a good boy. You haven't done anything wrong."

"But – "

"I…I just miss your father," she said. She spoke quickly, cutting him off; he could hear the lie in her voice. If she did know about him, then she was trying to deny it. "Clopin says you look just like him, you know." She pulled away, examining Pierre's face in the narrow cracks of moonlight. She ran her hand along his jaw. "You have his chin. His eyes, too."

"Maybe we can go back to Paris," said Pierre, "to visit his grave."

His mother only shook her head. "No, dear. We can't go back to Paris."

"Not even to visit him?"

"No." His mother was stroking his hair now. She had stopped crying and was looking at him, watching his face. She sighed. "I just wish he could see you, Pierre. He'd be so proud of you."

Pierre doubted it. If anything, his father would be angry and ashamed of him. What Pierre had done was far worse than anything imaginable; his father was probably spinning in his grave because of it. Perhaps his mother didn't know. After all, she wouldn't have said that his father would be proud of him if she knew. He felt relieved. She didn't know, and she wasn't weeping for him. Still, the fact that she'd had a nightmare so terrible that it made her cry frightened Pierre. What was she dreaming about?

"I love you, Pierre," she said. She hugged him again, kissing his cheek.

"I love you, too, Mama."

"Go back to bed now," she said, easing out of the hug. She patted his head. "I'm fine. I really am."

He nodded even though he knew she was lying, and he got up and made his way back to his narrow bed. He lay down, turning away from his mother. He heard the blankets rustling as she adjusted them, and he lay awake, listening to her breathing, wondering what was wrong.


	5. Still 1498, Part III

STILL 1498…

It was only a matter of time before it began to snow. Pierre dreaded winter. He always had. He hated the harshness of the wind and the wetness of the snow. He hated the cold. The shoes he had scrounged from the garbage bins were falling apart. He could feel the ground beneath his feet; every crack in the earth, every pebble. The shoes were too small for him. They pinched his toes uncomfortably. He had counted and recounted the money he'd stolen; it wasn't enough for new shoes.

The wind whipped at him, slicing through his coat like a knife. Pierre shivered, but continued to dig through the garbage bin. He pulled out a large scrap of leather and held it up. He could repair at least one of his shoes with it. He shoved it into his pocket and kept looking.

"You shouldn't dig through the garbage like that, little thief. It's really quite unbecoming."

Pierre turned. The soldier was standing a few paces behind him. He was staring at Pierre bemusedly, and was twirling a brass key in his hand. Pierre stared at the key. He did not want to go back to the Black Cat Inn. He had not successfully clarified his memories of what had happened there, but he knew that it had been wrong and unnatural. The soldier had been inside of him, had invaded him with such force that he'd bled. He shook his head. As much as he liked the soldier's kisses, as much as he liked to close his eyes and pretend that he was with Giovanni, he would not go back to the Black Cat Inn. "I can't," he said. "I need to go home."

The soldier was blocking the mouth of the alley, but Pierre knew that it was not the only exit. It was the most convenient exit, but not the only one. If worst came to worst, he could always climb the fence behind him. "I have a gift for you," said the soldier. "I've left it up in the room." He held out the key. Pierre jammed his hands into his pockets.

"I don't want it," he said.

"Oh come now, don't be so ungrateful. It's impolite to refuse a gift, you know. Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"

"I'm sorry," said Pierre. The mention of his mother made him uneasy, and the soldier stepped towards him. "But I don't want it." He backed away from the soldier, glancing over his shoulder at the fence behind him. It was made of wood and came up a little past his elbow. He'd climbed it before, and he could do it again. "I'm sorry, but I need to go home."

The soldier moved suddenly and swiftly, coming forward and grabbing at Pierre's wrist. Pierre wriggled out of his grasp, turning and darting for the fence. He felt the soldier grab his shoulder, felt himself being jerked back, and he tried to pull away. The soldier's grip only tightened. He grabbed Pierre's wrist with his free hand, twisting his arm behind his back as he shoved him against the brick wall. The bricks scraped Pierre's cheek, and he squirmed. "I should teach you some manners, little thief."

The sudden anger in the soldier's voice frightened him. He tugged at his arm, struggling in vain to free himself from the soldier's grasp. The soldier only gripped his arm tighter and pulled, sending waves of pain shooting up into Pierre's shoulder. "You're hurting me," gasped Pierre. The side of his face was pressed flat against the wall; all he could see was the little wooden fence he'd tried to climb over. He couldn't see the soldier's angry face, and this only made him more afraid. "Please let go, you're hurting me."

Much to his surprise, the soldier released him immediately. He stepped back, giving Pierre enough room to turn and face him. Pierre stared up at the soldier, unable to stop trembling. The anger that he'd heard in the soldier's voice was gone now, replaced by a look of concern. The soldier touched him, gently trailing his fingertips along Pierre's cheek. "I never meant to hurt you, little thief," he said softly. "I care about you."

Pierre rubbed his shoulder. The soldier was still too close to him; he doubted that he could push past him. "It hurt," he said finally, "I don't want it to happen again."

The soldier stroked his hair lovingly. Despite the tenderness of his touch, Pierre felt his stomach clench uncomfortably. "Of course not, little thief," he said. "I will not do anything against your will, I swear it. I only want to give you a present." He took hold of Pierre's hand. "Come, I'll show you."

~xXx~

He did not touch the wine. That had been his mistake the first time he'd entered the room at the Black Cat Inn; he'd had too much wine, and it had made him too drunk to stop the soldier. Pierre stared at the wine glass, aware that the soldier was watching him, expecting him to drink. He picked up an orange and began to peel it. "I'm not thirsty," he said quickly.

The soldier shrugged. He lifted his own wine glass and drained it. "Fair enough." He picked up a small square of chocolate that was wrapped in shiny pink paper. He unwrapped it and ate it, still watching Pierre. "You seem nervous, little thief." Pierre nibbled at the orange slice, forcing himself to consume it. "You have nothing to fear from me."

Pierre was tempted to ask about the gift. He was curious, of course, he wanted to know what it was. He also wanted to leave. The sooner he received the gift, the sooner he could leave. The soldier unwrapped another piece of chocolate. He stared down at the little brown square, then handed it to Pierre. Pierre reached for it, but the soldier swatted his hand away. He felt the square of chocolate brush against his lips, and he let the soldier feed it to him. Pierre could count on one hand the times he'd had chocolate. It was rare, a delicacy, and it was absolutely delicious. It was sweet and bitter and smooth in his mouth. It melted on his tongue and slid down his throat.

"You're a quiet one, little thief."

"I'm sorry. I just don't have anything to say."

The soldier chuckled. "I enjoy your silence," he said, "most children chatter too much." He winked at him. "You aren't a child, though."

Pierre ate another orange slice, turning the words over in his head. He was no longer a child, but he was not a man either. What was he? It was as though he was caught between two separate worlds, as though he was floating awkwardly in a no man's land. The soldier moved closer to him and reached beneath the table. Pierre watched as he lifted a large paper sack. The soldier handed it to him, and Pierre took it reluctantly. It was heavy, and its contents shifted.

He opened the sack. It held a scuffed, faded pair of boots. Pierre pulled one out, examining it. The boot was not new or pristine; it had been worn before. It was in excellent condition, however, with thick leather soles. It would probably be a bit too big for him. "Your old shoes won't do much good once it starts to snow," said the soldier, "those should fit you."

Pierre stared at the boots, then looked at the soldier. "I – I can't accept these – "

The soldier put his arm around Pierre's shoulders and began stroking his hair. "I want you to have them," he said. "You need them."

Pierre shook his head. "I – they're too much – people will ask me where I got them – "

"They used to be mine," said the soldier. He leaned in, and Pierre felt his lips brush against the side of his neck. "You can tell people you found them in that alley behind the shoemaker's shop." The soldier kissed him again. His kisses were tender and gentle. Pierre stared down at the boot. His shoes would not last him through the winter. The soles were worn enough as it was, and the snow would only seep through him. The boots were well-made. They would be able to withstand the cold wetness of the snow. He needed them.

"Thank you," he said, slipping the boot back into the paper sack.

"You're welcome, little thief," whispered the soldier between kisses. "I'm glad you like them."

~xXx~

Once again, he was not entirely certain of how his clothing had come off or how he'd gotten into the bed. He was, however, aware that the soldier was not hurting him. He felt good, and he moaned. The soldier responded to this, kissing his face, neck, and shoulders. His body was warm, his skin smooth, and his hands were gentle.

It was bliss, it was ecstasy, and, though Pierre knew in the back of his mind that the guilty feeling would return once it was over, he savored it. The boots lay forgotten in their paper sack on the table, the wine in his glass had been untouched. Pierre moaned again, running his fingers through the soldier's hair, kissing his face and neck. It felt good. It felt so good. He imagined Giovanni, thought of his blue eyes and thin arms, and it felt even better. He gritted his teeth, stopping himself from screaming Giovanni's name.

The soldier held him afterwards. He lay there in his arms, wondering how on earth this had happened and what he was going to do about it. The arousal he'd felt was unnatural; after all, if men were supposed to feel this way, why did they marry women? If this was supposed to happen, why did men make love to women? If it was supposed to be like this, why did Giovanni love Katarina instead of him? Pierre stirred, pulling himself out of the soldier's arms.

"I need to leave," he said as he got dressed. "My mother's expecting me."

The soldier merely nodded. He sat up lazily, stretching. "I'll see you later, little thief," he said. "I hope you enjoy the boots."

Pierre grabbed the brown paper sack. He had very nearly forgotten it. "Thank you," he said, glancing back at the soldier as he did so.


	6. Still 1498, Part IV

STILL 1498…

The thought came to him just as he was beginning to drift into sleep, and it jolted him awake. It was so simple, and Pierre wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner. He enjoyed the soldier's touch because he'd never known anyone else's. He'd never been with a woman before; he didn't know what they were like. If he went with a woman – if he touched her and kissed her like he'd done with the soldier – maybe he wouldn't be attracted to the soldier any more.

Pierre sat up. He could hear his mother's steady, even breathing and knew that she was asleep. He got up and dressed quickly. The taverns and brothels in Lyon rarely slept; even at this time of night, they'd be open. Pierre reached into his pockets, realizing that, as usual, he'd slipped his own money into his mother's purse. He stared at the small brown bag, then slowly approached it. He told himself that he would pay his mother back as he opened the pouch and carefully pulled out some coins, dropping them quietly into his pockets. He didn't take much. She wouldn't notice. Still, he could not bring himself to look at her sleeping form as he darted out the door and into the night.

The night air was bitter cold and somewhat damp. Pierre jammed his hands into his coat pockets, keeping his head down against the wind. Despite the lateness of the hour, the lights were still blazing in the inns and taverns in Lyon. The streets were not as crowded as they were during the day; they were littered with drunks, thieves, and whores, and Pierre stayed in the shadows, sliding past them easily.

Pierre had passed the brothel nearly every day and had never really paid attention to it. It was located on a narrow side-street, far from the bustling marketplace where respectable citizens did their business. The whores had ignored him for the most part, seeing only a child with no money. A few of them – the desperate ones, Pierre thought – would occasionally call out to him, promising to make him into a man in exchange for a few coins. He stood in the side-street now, staring nervously at the brothel. The side-street was packed with prostitutes and their clients, most of them tall, drunk, and loud. Pierre pressed himself further into the shadows, watching the people, relieved that he didn't recognize anyone.

"Out past your bedtime, dearie?" He turned around. The prostitute was taller than he was, older too. She was a chubby woman with dark brown hair, and she was close enough for Pierre to smell the wine and cheap perfume on her. She looked at him, smirking. "Are you even old enough to be looking for a good time?"

"I'm fifteen," he said, making an effort to stand up straighter. Despite the cold, the prostitute was not shivering the way he was.

"Well," she said, "if you're certain of what you're looking for…" She motioned for him to follow her, and he did. The brothel was more crowded and chaotic than the street was. It was a long, narrow building that seemed like one endless corridor. The prostitute led him to a small room with a single bed in it. He found himself staring at it as she closed the door behind them.

"All right, dearie, how much have you got?"

Pierre dug the coins out of his pocket. "I've never…I mean, this is my first time…" He handed her the coins, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He wondered if he should leave.

The prostitute nodded and did not look at all surprised. "I figured as much," she said. She nodded to the bed. "Sit down, dearie. I'll make a man out of you."

Pierre sat down. The bed was stiff, and the rumpled red blankets that lay across it smelled of wine and other men. Pierre tried to ignore the smell as the prostitute took her dress off. The dress was a dark shade of pink, and the prostitute wore nothing underneath. She approached him, swaying her hips in an attempt to appear more seductive. Her body seemed unremarkable; she was not hideous, but not particularly beautiful either. Her stomach was flat, but her thighs and upper arms were somewhat flabby. She sat down beside him and immediately undid his pants.

Her hands were surprisingly warm and gentle, and she smiled at him. "You like that, don't you, dearie?" she asked.

Pierre nodded. "Yes." He felt her breasts brush against his arm, and touched them tentatively. They were soft, and she leaned closer to him, pressing herself into his hands. He wondered if he should kiss her, and found himself tempted to.

She pulled away when he leaned in. "No, dearie," she said, shaking her head, "I never kiss."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right." She stopped touching him and lay down, propping herself up on her elbows. "Come on, then, you ready?"

Pierre nodded, and she helped him position himself on top of her. She suddenly seemed bigger than he was, as though she'd crush him if they switched places. Pierre leaned on his hands and knees, desperately trying to put as little weight on her as possible. Despite the fact that he was slimmer than her, he did not want to hurt her. He was inside of her, and this took him by surprise. She felt warm and sticky, and he wasn't entirely sure if he liked the feeling or now.

He began to move, bucking his hips and attempting to create a steady rhythm. He was beginning to realize that he had a very vague idea of what he was supposed to do. She was staring at the ceiling, her arms twined lazily around his shoulders. "Am I doing it right?"

She looked at him and smiled. "You're doing fine, dearie," she said. "You can go harder, though. I'm not breakable, you know."

"I'm sorry."

It did feel good in spite of the stickiness. Her thighs seemed to be coated in something gooey, which only reminded Pierre that she'd been with countless men. Disgusting as the thoughts was, he managed to successfully push it from his mind. He found that moving faster seemed to increase his pleasure, and the prostitute did not complain when he did so. She moved with him, gripping his shoulders. He climaxed, groaning as he did so. The prostitute stared up at him, panting, and he got off of her as quickly as he could.

He tugged his pants back up, not looking at her as she used one of the red blankets to wipe her thighs. "Thank you," he said, glancing at her. She was sitting on the bed, pulling the dark pink dress on over her head.

She laughed. "There's no need to be so polite," she said. She looked at him, running her fingers through her tangled brown hair. "Come back whenever you like, dearie. I'm always here."

He nodded and left without saying anything else. He slipped out of the brothel, ignoring the whores and their customers and staying in the shadows. He made his way back to the Gypsy camp slowly, his hands in his pockets, wondering if he was a man now. He had been with a woman, therefore, he was a man. He didn't feel much like a man, though. He didn't feel different at all, in fact. It felt as though nothing had changed. He wondered if the effect would take time to occur. Would he wake up tomorrow a different person? Would he look at Katarina with lust, or would he continue to fantasize about Giovanni?

~xXx~

It had been well over a week since he'd seen either the prostitute or the soldier. Nothing had changed him at all, and he was becoming frustrated and frightened. Despite his encounter with the prostitute, despite the pleasure he'd felt when she'd touched him, he continued to think about Giovanni in ways that weren't natural. He wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to touch him. Clearly, lying with a woman hadn't changed a thing.

Pierre did not venture back into Lyon. He did not want to see the soldier or the prostitute, though he doubted that the latter would even remember him. He remained on the outskirts of the town, picking vegetables with Giovanni, Katarina, and Marie. He hated picking vegetables. Despite being with his friends and sister, there was a certain loneliness to it, especially since Giovanni and Katarina giggled and chattered and threw turnips at each other as if he wasn't even there. Seeing them together like this was agonizing.

Marie tugged at his sleeve, and he turned to her. Why are you sad, she asked.

Pierre shook his head. He couldn't tell Marie. She was too young, she wouldn't understand it. She'd know instinctively that it was wrong, and it would terrify her. "I'm fine," he said quietly. His own hands ached. The ground was hard and cold, and digging the vegetables out was painful. His fingertips were numb, and it hurt to move his hands.

You're sad, said Marie. Please tell me why.

"My hands are cold," said Pierre, "that's all."

Marie took his hands, wrapping her small fingers around them. She brought them to her face and blew on them. Her breath was warm and thin, and Pierre suddenly loved her more than ever. He pulled his hands free of hers and hugged her. Marie hugged him back, patting his shoulder as if to tell him that everything would be all right.

~xXx~

Pierre had always known that he would have to go back into Lyon, and he tried to do so without fear. Every time he'd encountered the soldier, it had been in Lyon's back alleys and side-streets, and Pierre avoided these places. He stuck to the marketplace, watching the crowd as it moved. He had managed to snatch purses from several unsuspecting individuals; the secret pocket inside of his coat was full of coins and reassuringly heavy.

He approached the fruit stand now, slouching to appear smaller and hiding behind the other customers. The grocer's spread was scanty, but Pierre was hungry. He had eaten far worse than bruised apples and battered oranges. The grocer was arguing with a woman now, the two of them shouting at each other, and Pierre slid closer to the table. He picked up a small apple so close to the corner of the table that it was probably in danger of falling off anyway. The grocer had not seen him; he was still distracted by the woman, who was pointing angrily at the fruit and balancing a crying child on her hip. Pierre stepped backwards, preparing to melt back into the crowd and leave the marketplace with his apple.

"Thief! Get back here with that apple!"

Pierre was not certain of who exactly was yelling at him, but he fled nonetheless. He had been too focused on the grocer to notice the elderly man behind him; the man was obviously too good a citizen to allow him to get away with stealing one apple from a preoccupied grocer. The crowd in the marketplace was thick with people, all of them bundled against the cold and moving slowly. If he could get out of the marketplace, he could lose the grocer in the labyrinth of side-streets.

"Stop – thief!"

He heard the clanking of armor before he felt the hands on his waist. He felt someone push him, and he landed hard on the ground. The apple fell from his hand, rolling down the street and out of sight, but Pierre did not notice it. Whoever had tackled him was twisting his arms, pulling him to his feet. Pain shot through him, and he cried out.

"Rotten Gypsy thief, you'll pay for this." The voice was unfamiliar, and Pierre turned his head. He did not recognize the large, burly soldier who had tackled him and was now dragging him to the courthouse.

"Please," said Pierre. Pain flared up in the side of his face, and he winced. "I haven't eaten all day, sir. Please have pity on me – "

"Damn dirty Gypsies. You think you can break the law just because you're hungry?"

"I'll pay him back, I swear it, sir. Please, please – " Pierre noticed the rush of warmth that greeted him inside of the courthouse, and it only frightened him. He jerked, twisting and trying to free himself from the man's grip. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, nearly falling as the man dragged him down a flight of stairs. "I'll never do it again, I swear – just please – "

The man shoved him at a door, slamming him against it. Pierre felt the door give, and it opened. He stared at the room, shaking, too terrified to beg now. The room was small, narrow, but brightly lit. There was a large wooden table in the center, with an equally large chair beside it. The arms of the chair were covered in leather straps, and laid out on the table were knives of all different shapes and sizes.

The soldier – his soldier, the one who'd held him and kissed him with such gentleness – was standing by the table. He held a rag in his hand, and appeared to be scrubbing the table, frowning and cursing as he did so. The soldier looked at Pierre, but the usual tenderness was gone from his eyes. He looked impassive, as though he couldn't care less about Pierre at all. "What's this?" he asked, addressing the other soldier.

"A thief who needs to be taught a lesson."

"Please – " Pierre attempted to dig his heels into the floor, trying to root himself firmly and prevent the soldier from dragging him towards the chair. "Please, I'll never do it again, I swear."

"That's what they all say," muttered the soldier. He slammed Pierre into the chair with such force that he cried out in pain. Pierre wrenched, struggling to move his wrists as they were strapped to the arms of the chair. He could feel the tears streaming down his face and knew that he should feel ashamed for crying, but the only thing he could feel was terror, pure and unadulterated.


	7. Still 1498, Part V

STILL 1498…

"Guillame, go fetch a whetstone, will you?"

"What, you mean none of them are sharp?"

Pierre could not bring himself to look at either man. His tear-filled eyes were focused entirely on the array of knives on the table. He squirmed, tugging at the straps that bound him to the chair. They were thick and resilient, and they would not break. "The one I want to use couldn't cut paper." Hearing his soldier talk like this only made him struggle harder. The other soldier rolled his eyes and left the room, grumbling and cursing under his breath.

The minute he left the room, the remaining soldier came forward, his eyes full of concern. "What have you done?" he asked, reaching out and touching Pierre's face, caressing his cheek.

"Please don't cut my hand off," sobbed Pierre. "I'll do anything, please – "

The soldier only shook his head. "There's nothing I can do, little thief," he said. "I can't let a crime go unpunished."

"It was only an apple!" cried Pierre. "Please have mercy on me! I will do anything!"

"I'm sorry."

Pierre could barely see through his tears, but he could hear the sorrow in the soldier's voice. "My pocket," he said, "there's a pocket in my coat – you can have all of it…" The soldier reached into Pierre's coat, groping for the secret pocket. Pierre could feel the soldier searching, could feel his fingers brushing against the money.

"Why do you steal if you have money?"

Pierre shook his head. He couldn't answer. He didn't know, and this only made him cry harder. "I can't stop," he whimpered.

The soldier sighed, and his expression suddenly changed, shifting from compassionate to uncaring. Pierre turned. The other soldier – Guillame – had returned with the whetstone. "Here," he said, "sharpen your knife." The soldier took the whetstone wordlessly. Pierre felt Guillame grab him by the hair, jerking his head back and forcing him to look up at him. "Everyone is hungry, Gypsy," he said, "but you have no right to steal."

"Please – please have mercy on me – "

Guillame struck him, slapping him hard across the face. Pierre saw stars dancing in his eyes, felt a painful burning sensation in his cheek. "Stop begging, boy. I won't show any mercy. You're about to lose your hand, so tell me, which one would you like to keep?"

"Guillame, the boy's only eleven." The soldier spoke suddenly, and Pierre turned to him. His heart was beating harder and faster than he'd ever thought possible; it felt as though it would explode. The soldier was still sharpening a particularly cruel-looking knife, staring at it lazily. Still, maybe he would come to Pierre's rescue. Maybe he'd convince the other man that Pierre didn't deserve this punishment. "And it's his first offence. I think a finger will suffice."

Pierre was barely aware of vomiting, of the bile spilling from his mouth and down his shirt onto his lap. The calmness in the soldier's voice, the nonchalance – it was as though it didn't even matter to him. Pierre wanted to scream, to remind the man of what they'd shared. _I care about you, little thief._ The words stuck in Pierre's throat, and he balled his hands into fists.

"Fine. I assume you'll be the one removing it, then?"

"Yes."

"Oh God, please – "

Guillame struck him again. "Don't take the Lord's name in vain, you filthy heathen," he snapped. "God doesn't care about law-breaking Gypsies like you, anyway."

The soldier moved towards him, carrying the freshly sharpened knife. All Pierre could do was shake his head, silently pleading with him. The soldier set the knife down on the table and began undoing the strap on Pierre's left wrist. "I'm sorry," said Pierre, "I'm sorry – please, I'll do anything – "

"Open your hand." The soldier was gripping his wrist tightly, preventing him from moving, practically cutting off circulation to his fingers. Pierre only clenched his fist tighter. "Come on, open it or I take it all."

Pierre shut his eyes and relaxed his grip. He turned his head away, still keeping his eyes squeezed shut as the soldier pressed his palm flat against the table. He felt the soldier's hand against his, spreading his fingers as far apart as they would go. It was dreadfully, painfully, agonizingly quiet. For one brief instant, it was as if time had stopped, and Pierre found himself hoping that maybe the soldier would just let him go. Maybe he would not cut Pierre's finger off. Maybe he and Guillame would show mercy. Or – and this thought nearly made Pierre vomit again – maybe he would amputate his entire hand.

Pierre's hand was suddenly full of pain, and he could hear himself screaming. He opened his eyes, daring to glance down at his hand, and he screamed again. The soldier was holding his hand up, aiming Pierre's remaining fingers at the ceiling. Blood was streaming down Pierre's hand, gushing over the soldier's knuckles and onto both of their sleeves. The blood – oh God, there was so much blood, too much – was like a waterfall, and Pierre almost didn't notice Guillame approaching.

Pierre could not see what Guillame was holding, at least, he could not see it very clearly. Guillame was wearing thick black gloves, and was holding something bright red and glowing at arm's length. Pierre did not realize what it was until he felt it touch him. Guillame set the thing down on Pierre's hand, right on the spot where the blood was still flowing. Pierre could smell his own flesh burning, and the pain was greater than anything he had ever experienced before in his life. The pain rippled through him, burning him, searing his entire hand, and he screamed louder than ever.

The pain did not fade when the thing – metal, it was burning hot metal – was removed. The wound throbbed, the pain ebbing and flowing steadily like the tide. Pierre stared at his hand. It was covered in blood, but no longer bleeding, and he could see the hideous gap where his little finger used to be. He glanced at the table. His finger was lying in a pool of blood. He did not feel the soldier let go of his wrist, and he let his arm drop to his side. "I assume you've learned your lesson?" Guillame's voice was taunting him, and Pierre refused to look at him. Guillame grabbed him by the hair, turning his head, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Answer me, Gypsy."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

Pierre swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Guillame let go of his hair. "I'll take care of him," said the other soldier. Guillame only shrugged, then turned and left. The other soldier waited until Guillame's footsteps vanished before unstrapping Pierre's other wrist.

Despite his earlier struggles, Pierre was in too much pain to move. He sat there, panting, staring at his severed finger with almost grotesque fascination. He felt the soldier take his hand, felt him wrapping it in white cloth, and he winced. The wound was raw, and the cloth scraped it painfully. "I am so sorry, little thief," whispered the solider. "Believe me, I didn't want to – "

"You said you cared about me," said Pierre. His voice was a thin whisper that he barely recognized.

"I do." The soldier was wrapping the cloth too tightly, and Pierre squirmed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what I've done to you." He stroked Pierre's hair. Pierre pulled away; the soldier's touch sickened him. How dare he be tender now? How dare he sit by him and stroke his hair and act as though nothing had happened. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"No," said Pierre, glaring at him.

The soldier sighed, then rose. Pierre's legs wobbled as he stood up. He did not let the soldier help him stand and did not lean on him for support. He made his way through the hall and up the stairs slowly. He left the courthouse without looking back. He could feel the soldier's eyes on him, could feel them drilling into his back, begging him to turn around. He refused. He stood up straighter and slowly, very slowly, began to walk home.


	8. Still 1498, Part VI

STILL 1498…

His mother and sister were not home, and he was relieved by this. He knew that he would have to face them, to tell them what had happened to him, but he was glad that they would not see him covered in blood and vomit. He changed quickly and fetched a bucket of water from the well. He dragged it back to the house, trying to ignore the throbbing agony in his left hand.

He washed his clothing as best he could. The blood would not come off of his sleeve entirely; it faded, turning to a reddish-brown. He was hanging the wet clothes, fumbling with the clothespins, when his mother did return. She noticed the bandage on his hand immediately.

"Pierre, what's happened?" she asked, reaching for him. He lowered his head, letting her take his wounded hand and examine the bandage. He couldn't bear to tell her about the whole horrific experience. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm sorry, Mama." He forced himself to look at her. She was unwrapping the bandage, carefully examining the white cloth as she did so. "I was caught…"

"Oh my God!" She had finally finished unwinding the cloth and was staring at his hand. It was covered in dried blood, and the space where his little finger used to be was raw and swollen. The skin was an angry purplish-reddish color. Tears were forming in his mother's eyes, streaming down her face, and Pierre looked away. "I told you to stop," she said, her voice breaking, "I begged you, Pierre!"

"I know."

"Oh God! Oh God – you know what happened to your father, Pierre, you know! Do you want it to happen to you too?"

Pierre shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mama." He felt her arms around him, felt her pulling him close to her, and he closed his eyes. He leaned against her, pressing his face into her shoulder. He was mildly surprised that he was not crying with her. Perhaps he had simply run out of tears. "I'm so sorry," he said.

His mother let go of him, pulling herself away from him as she did so. She kept her hands on his shoulders, staring at him and sniffling. "I can't lose you like that Pierre," she said. "You or your sister. God – you're all I have. If anything were to happen to you…" Her voice trailed off, and she hugged him again, pressing him to her. He gripped her shoulder with his good hand, keeping his maimed one cradled carefully between them. It was frightening to see his mother this upset, and he suddenly felt guilty. His carelessness and stupidity was the cause of her distress.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. He did not know what else to say to her or how to ease her sorrow. He had expected her to be angry with him, to scold him for not heeding her advice. He had not expected her to cry. She stroked his hair, then pulled away again. She wiped her eyes, taking deep gasp-like breaths in an effort to keep her tears at bay. She tore a thin strip of fabric from the hem of her skirt and dipped it into the bucket of water that he'd been washing his clothing in.

He let her dab at the wound on his hand, wincing and gasping in pain as the cold water touched the raw, reddened flesh. His hand seemed to throb with agony, and Pierre had to clench his teeth to keep from screaming again. Even the lightest touch sent waves of pain shooting up into his arm; his mother was trying to be gentle, making little shushing sounds whenever he flinched.

~xXx~

"Your mother asked me to talk to you."

He supposed that he'd expected his mother to go to Clopin, but he had no desire to talk to him. Pierre glanced down at his bandaged hand. The white bandage was dirty and was wound tightly around his hand. It was itchy and irritating, and he hated the way the fabric scraped against his wound whenever he moved his arm. He hoped that he would not have to remove it, that he would not have to show the wound to Clopin. Removing and rebinding the bandage was painful.

Clopin sat down beside him. He put his hand on Pierre's shoulder. Clopin was one of his mother's best friends. Pierre was sometimes tempted to call Clopin a distant father-figure. Clopin was busy with his own family, he was not constantly at Rosalie's side, but both he and Cassandra made an effort to help her whenever they could. "You know how your father died," said Clopin.

Pierre nodded. "A man stabbed him," he said.

"Yes," said Clopin, "but you don't know the full story. Nobody does, not even your mother." Pierre looked at him. Clopin's features were solemn and serious, and he looked somewhat uncomfortable. "There were things I didn't tell her because I didn't want to upset her."

"Like what?" asked Pierre.

"Well, you know that your father tried to rob a man and that he was stabbed in the stomach," said Clopin, "and he tried to make it back to the Court of Miracles. I found him in the tunnel, and I carried him into the Court, but…" Clopin sighed. "He'd lost too much blood. He died in my arms, calling for your mother."

Pierre had never heard this last detail, and it filled his heart with pain. He had always known that his father had died attempting to return to the Court of Miracles, that Clopin had found him and carried him. "The dying sometimes see their loved ones," continued Clopin, "and your father saw your mother. He asked her to forgive him. His last words were 'Rosalie, I'm sorry.' I never told your mother. She was so upset when he died, I couldn't bring myself to tell her his dying words."

"Why?"

"She had asked him to stop stealing for a living," said Clopin. "I suppose I wanted her to think that his death was peaceful, or at least as peaceful as a stab wound can be. I told her that the last thing he said was that he loved her. And that is true. He loved your mother very much."

Pierre looked down at his hand again and sighed. The pain he felt in his heart was almost as agonizing as the pain where his finger used to be. "I'm sorry," he said.

Clopin made a shushing sound and rubbed his back. "What's done is done, Pierre," he said, "try as we might, we can't change it. Don't feel sorry. Learn from what happened."

~xXx~

Giovanni and Katarina were rarely separated, and Pierre was genuinely surprised to be sitting alone with Giovanni. He knew that Giovanni would ask about the wound on his hand. The news of his punishment had spread like wildfire. As much as Pierre didn't want to talk about it, he knew that he'd answer whatever questions Giovanni asked.

"Does it hurt?"

Pierre nodded. "It hurt more yesterday," he said. "Sometimes it feels like my finger is still there and it's itching."

"That's creepy."

"Phoebus said it was normal," said Pierre. "He says that sometimes he can still feel where his leg used to be."

"Phoebus lost his leg years ago," said Giovanni. "He can still feel it after all this time?"

"Well, I don't think he feels it all the time. Just once in a while." Pierre looked down at his hand. It was still swaddled in the bandage, and it looked swollen and clumsy. "I don't feel my finger all the time."

"When can you take the bandage off?"

Pierre shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe in a few days." He glanced at Giovanni. Giovanni was staring curiously at his hand, biting his lower lip. Pierre desperately wanted to kiss him, and he looked away, forcing the desire back. He could never kiss Giovanni, ever. He would have to force himself to be content with seeing him and talking to him, with being his friend.

"I'm sorry that it happened."

"You really don't have to be."

"Well, I still am."

"Thank you, I guess."

Giovanni smiled at him, and Pierre had to fight the urge to lean in and kiss him. What if Giovanni liked it, though? What if Giovanni kissed him back? What if Giovanni held him and stroked his hair, just as the soldier had? Thinking of the soldier seemed to ruin everything. Pierre could see him clearly in his mind's eye sharpening the knife on the whetstone, could hear his voice, soft and apologetic. _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what I've done to you_. There had been something in his voice that had lacked sincerity, or at least, it had seemed that way to Pierre. It did not matter, though. Pierre would never allow the soldier to touch him again.

~xXx~

He brought Marie into Lyon with him. He knew that she was not particularly fond of the city, that she preferred the less-crowded outskirts, but he needed protection from the soldier. The soldier would only approach him if he was alone. He would stay away if he saw Marie with him, and besides, Marie's right shoe was beginning to fall apart. Pierre brought her to the alley behind the shoemaker's shop, and they began to root through the piles, looking for a replacement for her.

"I see you've returned, little thief."

Pierre turned around. Marie had not heard the soldier, and she continued to examine the shoe she had found, holding it up and looking at it. Pierre rose and stepped between Marie and the soldier. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I only wanted to apologize again."

Pierre shook his head. "I will never forgive you," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marie turn around. She leapt to her feet, staring wide-eyed at the soldier and clutching the shoe she'd found. Pierre reached behind him, and she took his hand. He squeezed her reassuringly. "We aren't doing anything wrong," he said.

"No," said the soldier, "you aren't."

"We need to leave."

The soldier silently stepped to the side, allowing them to pass. Marie was trembling, gripping Pierre's hand as though she feared it would evaporate. He led her from the alley and then looked at her. "It's fine," he said softly, "we weren't breaking any laws. He can't arrest us." She nodded as though she understood, but she continued to glance warily over her shoulder as they left the marketplace.


	9. Still 1498, Part VII

STILL 1498…

"Eggs, bread, bacon," he murmured, "eggs, bread, bacon."

He reached into his pocket, brushing his fingertips against the coins his mother had given him earlier. The snow was thick and slushy. It had lost its shining whiteness and had turned a dull brownish-gray. Pierre made his way through it, heading into the marketplace. Despite the frigid wind and the wet snow, the marketplace was still bustling with people. They moved slowly, wading through the ankle-deep snow and shuddering, wrapping their shawls and coats tighter around their shoulders. "Eggs, bread, bacon," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

His mother had not given him enough money. She'd given him what she had, but it wasn't enough. He would have to bargain and haggle and settle for inferior food, and normally he wouldn't have minded. His hand was hurting him, the space where his finger used to be throbbing incessantly. Nearly a month had gone by since he'd lost it, and the pain had all but subsided. Today was different. Today the pain seemed to radiate from his knuckle, spreading out into his hand and up his arm.

The cold seemed to further irritate the wound, and Pierre jammed his hand into his pocket. The fabric of his coat scraped his knuckle, sending a fresh wave of pain shooting through his hand. Pierre winced and gritted his teeth, trying to ignore it and focus on the food he needed. "Eggs, bread, bacon," he muttered, hoping that the sound of his own voice would drown out the pain.

He had known upon entering the marketplace that he might see the soldier. He had told himself repeatedly that he might encounter him, but he was still surprised when he rounded a corner and came face-to-face with him. The soldier looked at him, and Pierre shifted, gripping the money in his pocket.

"Hello, little thief."

"I need to go – "

"Wait." The soldier reached for him, but Pierre jerked back. "Are you still upset about your hand?" He asked the question with irritation in his voice, as if Pierre was behaving unreasonably, like a spoiled child.

Pierre glared at him. "You cut my finger off," he said, his voice a thin, angry hiss. He held his hand up. The soldier stared at his severed knuckle with sad eyes.

"I had no choice, little thief. I didn't want to, and I'm truly sorry. I never wanted to hurt you – "

"I need to leave."

The soldier grabbed him by the wrist, jerking him forward. Pierre tugged, struggling to free himself, but the soldier's grip was too tight. "Don't interrupt me," said the soldier, "I've apologized about your hand. What more do you want?"

"Let go of me." The soldier only tightened his grip. Pierre squirmed. "Let go of me or I'll tell."

The soldier laughed. It was a thin, restrained sound, as if he was trying not to laugh too loudly. "And what will you tell them, little thief? That you liked it? That you came to me and begged for it? That you moaned like a whore when I gave it to you?" The soldier leaned in, his eyes drilling into Pierre's. "No one will believe you, little thief, because you're just as guilty as I am." He released Pierre. Pierre stepped back, rubbing his wrist, staring at the soldier.

He was right. He was completely and totally right. Pierre could not play the innocent victim, because he had enjoyed the soldier's touch. He had sought the soldier out, had given in to him willingly. He had never protested or resisted. "Go buy your bread, little thief," said the soldier, stepping aside to let Pierre pass. "I'll stay out of your life, if that's what you want. Just remember, a victim doesn't enjoy it."

Pierre watched as the soldier moved past him, heading out into the marketplace calmly, as though nothing had happened. He was right. He was right about everything. Pierre shook his head in an attempt to shove the thoughts from his mind. "Eggs, bread, bacon," he whispered. He forced his feet to move, to carry him to the bakery. "Eggs, bread, bacon."

~xXx~

"You look as though you've seen a ghost. What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm just cold."

His mother looked somewhat doubtful, but she turned to the basket he'd handed her and continued examining the food he'd brought back. "Thank you, Pierre," she said without looking up. "Will you go and find your sister?"

"Yes, Mother."

He was somewhat glad to be away from her. He feared that she would continue to question him, and that if she did, he wouldn't be able to hold the answers inside of him any longer. God, she would be so ashamed if she knew the truth. She'd disown him if she knew. She'd throw him out into the harsh, unforgiving winter. He needed his mother, needed her love; her love was good and pure and natural. He didn't deserve it, but he was certain he'd shrivel up and die without it.

He looked around, his dark eyes scanning the Gypsy camp for Marie. When he didn't see her, he started heading towards Clopin's caravan. Perhaps Giovanni had seen her, or maybe he'd help Pierre look.

Pierre heard the voices as he approached the caravan, and he recognized them instantly. Clopin and Cassandra were standing on the other side of the caravan, just out of his view. Their voices were soft, hushed, and Pierre wondered why they were outside in the freezing weather. He could see Cassandra's thin legs, could see her shifting from the cold. Why would they be talking outside? Perhaps their children were inside of the caravan, and they couldn't talk in front of them. Still, Pierre wondered what was so pressing that it warranted standing in the slushy snow.

"I'm worried about her. She's been drinking."

"I've noticed," said Cassandra. "She looks tired all the time, as though she doesn't sleep."

"Maybe you should talk to her."

"Me?" asked Cassandra, "I don't know what to say. You know her better than I do."

Pierre knew that it was wrong to listen, but he found that he couldn't help it. He wondered who they were talking about. A woman who was tired and drinking more than normal…it sounded like his mother, and Pierre shuddered at the thought. He knew that there was something bothering his mother, something that was giving her nightmares, something that she wouldn't tell him about.

"Well, I mean, I just thought…Cassandra, you know what I'm talking about…"

"What? It almost happened to me, therefore we have a bond?" Cassandra sounded offended, irritated.

"No, that's not it – "

"Really? That's how it sounds to me."

"No, I mean…you're a woman. You'd know what to say."

_It almost happened to me_. _It almost happened to me_. God, what was she talking about? It seemed familiar, as if it was buried somewhere in the clutter of Pierre's mind. Cassandra was sighing now. "I've tried, Clopin. I've tried, but she won't talk to me." Cassandra paused, "you were there. Maybe…"

"I helped her kill them," said Clopin. "I helped her have her revenge. I…I don't know how else to help her."

_It almost happened to me_…_I helped her have her revenge_…Pierre suddenly felt sick. They were talking about his mother – he knew that they were talking about his mother. _It almost happened to me_. Cassandra was almost raped when she was thirteen. Clopin killed the men who'd done it. _I helped her have her revenge_. His mother. His mother had been raped? Pierre shut his eyes, trying in vain to force the thoughts away. No, it wasn't possibly. It didn't happen. They were talking about someone else, they had to be.

He had become separated from his mother for four agonizing days while they were going from Paris to Lyon. His mother had sent him into the woods with Marie and Katarina, and they had gotten lost. His mother had heard horses; she'd thought guards or soldiers were approaching, so she'd sent them into the woods for their own safety. When he'd finally been reunited with her, he'd noticed bruises on her face, and she'd refused to tell him where they'd come from.

Four days had gone by. What had happened to his mother? He leaned against the caravan, straining to hear even though part of him didn't want to.

"I can't help her if she doesn't let me," said Clopin.

"I'm worried about our girls," said Cassandra. "It's happened to almost every woman I've known. What if it happens to our girls?"

"I will not let that happen, you know that."

"My father said the same thing," said Cassandra, "and I'm sure Rosalie's did, too."

Pierre turned away. They were talking about his mother. The soldiers – the ones she'd heard on the road, the reason she'd sent Pierre, Marie, and Katarina into the woods – had raped her. They'd beaten her and raped her. They were the cause of her drinking, her paranoia, and her nightmares. They were the reason she woke up crying. Pierre had to force his legs to move, to work properly. He walked away from the caravan, wishing he'd never overheard Clopin and Cassandra. He moved stiffly, as if he was just learning how to walk, heading towards the narrow house he shared with his mother and sister. He had forgotten about fetching Marie. He had to see his mother.

He had to see her. He had to tell her what he'd overheard, he had to hear her tell him that it wasn't true, that it was just a misunderstanding. Clopin and Cassandra were talking about someone else. His mother would scold him for eavesdropping, then she'd embrace him and kiss his forehead and tell him that nothing bad had happened to her. She'd stroke his hair and he'd know that she was fine. Everything was fine.

Marie was sitting at the table, pulling off her mittens when he opened the door. His mother was putting plates of food down, and she looked up when he came in. "Pierre," she said, smiling, "Marie came in a few minutes after you left. I was going to go and fetch you once I'd finished making supper."

"Oh." He stared at the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon she'd set down at his place. He could not ask her now, not in front of Marie. He took his coat off and sat down. He was not hungry, but he forced himself to eat, staring down at his plate as he shoveled the eggs into his mouth. If Clopin and Cassandra had indeed been right – if soldiers had raped his mother and beaten her – then she would not want him or Marie to know. Just as he could never tell her about the soldier whose touch he had enjoyed, she could never tell him about the soldiers who had violated her.


	10. Epilogue, 1506

**EPILOGUE, 1506…**

"What's happening?" The square in front of the courthouse was usually crowded, but today the crowd seemed thick and unmoving. Instead of the usual hustle and bustle, people were just standing there, staring at the courthouse as if they were waiting for something.

"An execution, I think," said Giovanni. "At least, that's what I heard."

There was an old woman standing just a few paces ahead of them, and she turned to them. "Yes," she said, nodding, "they're saying Jacques Charmolue was caught doing unspeakable things with a young boy. He's to be burned at the stake today." Before Pierre could properly digest this information, the courthouse doors were flung open. Though nearly eight years had passed, he recognized Guillame and the man that he was dragging behind him.

The soldier (who, for a fleeting time, had once been his) was thin, gaunt, and covered in bruises. He was wearing a dirty prison uniform, and he limped, struggling to keep up with Guillame. His wrists were bound behind his back; Guillame had tied a noose around his neck and was leading him as though he was a dog on a leash. Pierre's stomach clenched painfully, but all he could do was stare. Everything he had ever felt towards the soldier – mostly feelings of lust, followed by hate and self-loathing – came flooding back. He remembered everything, every touch, every kiss. Pain suddenly flared up in his left hand, and he glanced quickly at the spot where his little finger used to be.

The crowd was seething. People threw things and screamed obscenities, and his soldier lowered his head, flinching as rotten fruit and small stones hit him. Several other soldiers were waiting at the platform, where an enormous stake had been erected. They grabbed his soldier (Jacques, his name was Jacques, it was so strange that he even _had_ a name), and though he struggled, they managed to tie him to the stake.

"The filthy pervert," said the old woman, shaking her head in disgust, "he'll burn in Hell for what he's done."

Guillame turned to face the crowd now, his eyes scanning the faces. His eyes passed over Pierre and did not linger; Pierre wondered if Guillame recognized him at all. He had probably forgotten the crying boy who had vomited when he'd found out that he would have to lose a finger. "Jacques Charmolue has been found guilty of molesting a boy," he shouted, "and for that, he will be burned at the stake until dead. This perverted monstrosity has corrupted and defiled the youth of Lyon. It is my solemn duty to send this vile, wretched thing back to Hell."

The soldiers had piled bundles of sticks and straw around Jacques, and he was staring down at them in terror. Guillame lit a torch, watching as the flames grew, then turned to Jacques. "May God have mercy on your soul, Jacques," he said, "though you certainly don't deserve it."

"Guillame, please…" Pierre barely heard Jacques's voice above the crowd. Guillame only glared at him and began to lower the torch, bringing the flames closer to the kindling. Pierre turned away.

"I can't watch this," he said. He suddenly felt cold. The day itself was not hot; it was only May, and the sun seemed to dart in and out of clouds. The crackling flames from the platform, combined with the heat emanating from the bodies in the crowd, had once been stifling and unbearable. Now Pierre felt freezing, as though winter had suddenly enveloped him.

If Giovanni replied, Pierre did not hear it. He began to move, weaving through the crowd as best he could, trying desperately to ignore the horrible screaming that was now undoubtedly coming from Jacques. Pierre suddenly found himself remembering every kiss and caress. The memories were stark and vivid; in his mind's eye, he saw himself in the alley, saw Jacques pressing him against the wall. He could almost feel Jacques gripping his wrists, holding him still while he examined his hands. _You have wonderful hands. It would be a shame if you lost one. I'm sure you could put them to better use._ The words seemed cruel and taunting now; Jacques had held all of the power. He had stood there, tall and dominating, looking at Pierre with lust in his eyes and using his strength to his advantage.

Pierre found himself wondering about the other boy. Who had Jacques touched? Why had he come forward? Why hadn't Pierre come forward? Why had Pierre continually allowed it to happen? Why couldn't he watch his tormentor being punished? He could not shake the thoughts off, even after he'd successfully made his way out of the square and onto the road. He looked around. Marie was outside, attempting to hold her baby and hang wet clothes to dry at the same time.

He went to her, tapping her on the shoulder. She smiled at him. She could not hear the muffled sound of the crowd, and if she smelled the smoke in the air, she didn't seem to care. He took Mikhail from her wordlessly and watched as she resumed hanging the clothes. Pierre paced back and forth, and began talking to his nephew. He had always secretly feared that Mikhail would not learn how to talk properly; Marie couldn't talk at all, and though Dmitri's French had improved, he still spoke with a thick Russian accent. Pierre made it a point to talk to his nephew whenever he could, often making up stories or simply telling the baby about his day.

"Your mama's hanging clothes right now," he said. "I'm surprised you're awake, Mikhail. It's your naptime. Have you been giving your mama trouble?" Mikhail only looked at him, his small hand reaching for Pierre's mouth. He turned his head as the baby continued to grab at his moving lips. "I certainly hope you haven't. How will she get her chores done if she'd got to carry you around everywhere because you won't take your nap?" He kissed Mikhail's hand. "It's a good thing you're so cute. Otherwise she'd be cross with you."

Marie had finished with the clothes now and was approaching him. Thank you, she said before reaching for Mikhail. Pierre reluctantly handed the baby to her. There was something very soothing about holding Mikhail. When he held Mikhail, it was as though nothing else really mattered or existed. He watched as Marie rocked him in her arms, making little cooing sounds at him while she did so, and he wondered if she felt the same way. Did the rest of the world vanish when she held her baby?

He did not follow her into the house. She would probably try to put Mikhail down for his nap again, and Pierre's presence would only distract the baby. He glanced back at Lyon. A thick column of smoke was billowing upwards from the center of the town, and it made Pierre shudder. It was a fate that could very well befall him, and he looked away. He headed towards his own house. It was small and windowless, and he could sit inside and force himself to think of other things.

~xXx~

"You were smart to leave when you did," said Giovanni. "Urgh, the stink! It's like I can still smell it." He glanced back over his shoulder at the town. "They're just leaving the body there, too. I mean, he doesn't _deserve_ a proper burial, but doesn't the smell bother anyone?"

Pierre could see the charred, twisted corpse in his mind's eye, could see crows picking and pecking at it. He had not seen Jacques's widow in the crowd. She was probably humiliated by her late husband's atrocities, and would probably wind up leaving Lyon with her head hung in shame. Everyone would look at her and wonder how she had ever loved such a foul creature. It would be better for her if she just left.

"He was married!" Giovanni continued, "his widow watched the whole thing, crying the entire time."

"That's horrible." So she _had_ been there.

"And she had no idea! How can you keep such a horrible thing a secret?"

It isn't hard, thought Pierre. He looked at Giovanni and shrugged. He had kept his love for Giovanni a secret, had been doing it since he was fifteen or so. It was relatively easy to keep a secret; all he had to do was keep his mouth shut. It was much harder living with the secret, lying awake at night and knowing that Giovanni was with Katarina. Seeing Katarina pregnant had been agonizing. Her swollen belly and the children within were only further proof of what she and Giovanni shared. They were in love, and their love had produced children, little bits of flesh and blood that smiled and laughed and called him 'Uncle.'

"I feel sorry for her," said Pierre. "She must be so ashamed."

Giovanni shook his head. "The people in the crowd began throwing rotten fruit at her."

Pierre had seen the woman a handful of times. She had always been laughing and smiling, her hands tightly clasped around Jacques's arm. She had always looked up at him with love in her eyes. He could not imagine her crying, tears streaming down her face as the crowd pelted her with fruit and cursed at her. Would the crowd to the same to his mother or Marie? If he was ever caught, exposed, discovered, he would be burned at the stake, but what would happen to his mother and sister? Would they watch him die? Would the crowd turn on them, swearing and throwing rotten fruit? He couldn't disgrace them like that. He couldn't put them through that shame.

He wondered briefly what Giovanni would do. Giovanni would be disgusted, naturally. Would he show up to watch the execution? Would he throw things? Would he turn against Pierre's family?

"Is something bothering you?" asked Giovanni. His voice jolted Pierre from his thoughts.

Pierre shook his head. "It's nothing," he lied. "Mikhail was coughing earlier. I should go and see if he's all right."

Giovanni nodded. "Musetta was a sickly baby," he said. "You should boil water and stand by the kettle with Mikhail. The steam will ease his cough."

"I'll try that," said Pierre. He hated lying to Giovanni about anything. If Giovanni inquired about Mikhail, found out he'd been lying, what would he think? Would he suspect anything? Pierre brushed the thoughts away. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to go home and shut out the rest of the world, to sit in the dark and close his eyes and try to forget everything.

~xXx~

He did not know why he had kept the boots. They no longer fit him, and he rarely, if ever, dug them out of their paper sack and looked at them. He shifted the sack in his arms. He couldn't bear the sight of the boots, hated to think that they were even in his own house. He had to get rid of them. It seemed only fitting that they should be burned, but a fire at this hour would only attract attention. He did not want to have to explain to anyone why he was outside burning a pair of boots. Burying them would have to do.

He did not want them anywhere near his house, but it was much too dark to go into the woods. He hated the woods, had always hated the woods, and if he entered them in the dark, he would only get lost. He hated being lost more than anything, and the mere thought of being lost in the woods was just too much. He would bury the boots near his own house, and would try to forget that they were there. Perhaps he'd dig them up later and move them.

He was a few paces away from his house, digging as quietly as he could. The little shack he'd built was sandwiched between the house where his sister now lived and Clopin's caravan. The night was still and peaceful, and the sound that the shovel made when it hit the dirt seemed magnified. It seemed as though his actions would wake everyone up.

The hole was too shallow, and Pierre was too focused on making it deeper to notice the door to Clopin's caravan open. The soil seemed to trickle back down into the hole, and Pierre cursed. He had to bury the boots deep in the ground to ensure that no one would ever find them. He paused, frowning at the hole. He did not notice Clopin approaching, and nearly screamed when Clopin reached out and touched his shoulder.

"What are you doing out at this time of night?" asked Clopin, yawning.

"I…I couldn't sleep." It was a stupid excuse. Pierre had always had a knack for lying, for creating excuses and falsehoods on the spot, but he'd always found it impossible to lie to Clopin. Clopin had a way of staring at him as if he could see through the lie.

Clopin bent down and picked up the sack. "Are these boots?" he asked. He pulled one out of the sack, holding it up and squinting at it in the moonlight.

"They're cursed," said Pierre quickly. "They…I think they're dangerous."

"Curses don't exist, Pierre, you know that." Clopin stopped looking at the boot. He was staring at Pierre now. "These are too small for you."

"I just want to get rid of them."

"They might fit my son in a year or so."

Pierre swallowed. He did not like the idea of anyone else wearing the boots. "I really…I don't think…I…" he sighed, "please, Clopin, just let me get bury them."

Clopin put the boot back in the paper sack. "What's bothering you?"

Pierre shook his head. The secret lay in the back of his mind. It threatened to crawl out of his throat like an animal, and he clenched his teeth until they hurt. No one could know, especially not Clopin. Clopin would tell the Council of Elders, he'd have Pierre put to death. "I can't talk about it."

"Has someone hurt you?"

Pierre shook his head again. "Please, just leave me alone."

"Is it about that soldier? The one who was executed?"

Pierre was so startled he dropped the shovel. He bent to retrieve it, his hands shaking. He hadn't seen Clopin in the crowd, but then again, he hadn't seen Jacques's widow either. "No," said Pierre quickly. He could not bring himself to look at Clopin. He felt Clopin's eyes on him, felt the pity and surprise. He fumbled with the shovel, jamming it into the dirt, trying to focus on the hole. "It's in the past. It doesn't matter anymore."

He felt Clopin's hand on his shoulder. "Pierre, why didn't you tell me?"  
"Because I liked it." He blurted it out without thinking. The words flew from his mouth, and he bit his lip, regretting it immediately. He wished he could take them back, wished he could clog Clopin's ears to them. "I mean…I…I was fifteen and…it felt good."

Clopin was silent, and his silence was making Pierre uncomfortable. He gripped the shovel, deepening the hole. "Please don't let them kill me."

"Oh God, Pierre, no. No one is going to kill you – "

"What I felt was unnatural – "

"He molested you."

Pierre let the shovel fall from his hands. "I'm in love with Giovanni," he said finally.

"That man corrupted you," said Clopin, "he's the reason you feel this way."

"I've always loved Giovanni. Even before I met the soldier." He rubbed his forehead. He had half-hoped that letting the secret out would make him feel relieved. It didn't. He felt worse. Telling the secret only made it more terrible. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's fine." Clopin's voice sounded tense, though, and Pierre glanced at him. Clopin was staring at him, thinking hard. Pierre wondered what he was thinking. Clopin was fiercely protective of his family; he viewed Giovanni as a son, and if he thought that Pierre was a threat, then he'd kill him without hesitation. "All right, have you ever been with a woman?"

Pierre nodded. "They were prostitutes…" Somehow admitting that he'd been with whores was worse than admitting that he loved Giovanni. At least what he felt for Giovanni was love. He felt nothing for the prostitutes he'd been with; half the time he hadn't even really enjoyed their company.

Clopin was shaking his head. "No, that doesn't count." He sighed, thinking. "All right. Heracles got a letter from Hans a few days ago. The circus will be coming back though here next month."

"What does that – ?"

"Hans has recently employed some lovely young acrobats," said Clopin. "You need to fall in love with a woman." Pierre stared at him, confused. Would it be possible for him to fall in love with a woman? He didn't feel anything for Katarina; he hadn't felt anything for Theresa, and he'd married her (briefly, ever so briefly, it practically didn't count). "It's easy," continued Clopin, as if reading his mind. "The circus will return, then you'll meet a pretty girl and fall in love with her."

"I'd have to leave, wouldn't I? I'd have to go with her."

Clopin nodded. "Yes," he said, his voice firm.

Pierre nodded. "All right."

Clopin looked down at the hole, letting his hand fall off of Pierre's shoulder. "That hole looks deep enough," he said. Pierre turned, glancing down at the hole. He was surprised at how deep it seemed now. He tossed the paper sack into the hole and picked up the shovel. He scooped dirt over the paper sack, hiding it completely. He moved quickly, working in silence, keenly aware of Clopin watching him. "Pierre," he said, "you can never tell anyone what you told me."

"I know."

"Good." Clopin yawned again. "It's late. Try and get some sleep."

"Thank you."

"You'll be all right, Pierre," said Clopin, "everything will be all right."

~xXx~

Her name was Tess, and she spoke with a clipped, English accent. Her skin had probably once been quite pale; her face and arms were sunburned, the pink peeling and revealing a deep tan. There was something pretty in the unevenness of her skin and the broken way she spoke. She was plain when compared with the other two acrobats, Morgana and Oxana, but she was friendlier, easier to talk to.

"You'll have to excuse me," she said, "I don't speak good French."

"Your French isn't that bad," said Pierre. "I can teach you, if you like."

Tess smiled at him, brushing her short brown hair out of her eyes. Like Katarina, she kept her hair cut short. It was curly; little brown corkscrews seemed to shoot out in all directions, and she was forever attempting to smooth them down. There was something cute in the way she patted her own head. Pierre liked her, though he knew that he hung around her more to please Clopin than anything else. Clopin had not told anyone about their discussion, but once the circus returned to Lyon, he began watching Pierre like a hawk. Pierre was not sure if it irritated him or frightened him.

"Tell me about your act." He did not know the first thing about teaching a language to anyone. He supposed that talking was the key.

Tess blushed. "I don't know how to say it," she said. "I can show you."

She was wearing pink trousers that came down a little past her knee. Pierre watched as she tucked in her white blouse, then suddenly pitched forward. She did a quick cartwheel, then began walking on her hands. She paced back and forth in front of him. "I don't know what this is called," she said.

"You're walking on your hands."

"Walking on my hands." She righted herself. "Walking on my hands. What about this?" She did a cartwheel.

"A cartwheel."

"Cartwheel. Cartwheel. All right, what's this?"

He watched as she moved. She was swift, her movements graceful and fluid. "A flip."

"A flip. My act is…cartwheel, flip, walking on my hands…"

"That's right."

Tess laughed. "You're a good teacher, Pierre."

"You know what would make your act better? Juggling."

She looked confused. "I'm not sure…what is 'juggling'?"

Pierre picked up the small purple balls by the rest of Tess's equipment. "I haven't done this in a while," he said, tossing one into the air. "I'm afraid I'm not good at it." He attempted to juggle, but the purple balls fell to the ground in a heap.

"Oh!" Tess picked the balls up. She began juggling, her hands moving quickly and gracefully, tossing and catching the balls with ease. "Juggling. That's what this is called in French." She nodded. "Sometimes I juggle with Morgana and Oxana." She looked at him, catching all three of the balls and holding them. "I can teach you."

"I'd like that."

"Here, try again." She tossed the balls to him. "You almost had it the first time." The balls seemed to move too fast, and he couldn't concentrate on all three of them at the same time, especially now that Tess was watching him more closely. Tess was laughing again as she picked up the ones he'd dropped. Pierre felt slightly embarrassed. "You need to keep your arms close to you," said Tess. She moved behind him, placing her hands on his elbows and pressing them to his sides. "Like this."

She did not move, at least, not right away. He felt her pressed against him. Her body was thin and warm, and he glanced over his shoulder at her. She was staring at him, her hazel eyes wide. She moved, gliding to his side, and he let her kiss him. His lips brushed against hers only briefly. Her lips were soft and warm and nervous.

"What's that called?" she asked, her voice breaking the silence.

"A kiss."

She smiled. Her smile was an infectious one; Pierre had noticed that whenever Tess smiled, everyone smiled with her. He himself was smiling now. He liked Tess. She had a certain sweetness to her, and she was pretty in her own way. He would leave Lyon, join the circus with her, and he was sure that he could learn to love her in time. Nothing needed to happen right away. They were both young; they both had all the time in the world.

**END**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

As per usual, much thanks go out to Victor Hugo's masterpiece, "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." Thanks goes to the Disney version (but not as much; Hugo's work is superior).

Also thanks to Tod Browning's film, "Freaks," the basis for Hans's circus.

Mad love and much thanks go out to Sunrise19 for reviewing. You rock. Much thanks also goes out to the people who read but didn't review (it's cool; I don't review everything I read either).

Just to clarify - hooking up with Tess is not going to magically "cure" Pierre of being gay. Pierre happens to live in medieval France, and it basically just sucks to be gay in medieval France, what with the intolerance and the lack of indoor plumbing and the poor hygiene. Medieval France just sort of sucks for everybody, basically.

Jacques Charmolue is named after a character in Hugo's original "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." He has a very minor role; he is a torturer who forces Esmerelda to (falsely) confess to killing Phoebus. On a similar note, Pierre has a last name, which is another nod to Hugo's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." In "Esmerelda's Choice," I mention it a couple times. Pierre's last name is Gringoire, after the character in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame."

Traditionally in medieval times, thieves would lose their entire hand as a punishment for stealing. I decided to go a bit easier on Pierre here and have him lose a finger instead of his entire hand. I also thought there was something a bit more sinister about just losing your finger, like a "three strikes, you're out" kind of thing. When Guillame presses the burning metal against Pierre's bleeding hand, it cauterizes the wound, closing it and stopping the bloodflow. They do it in the film "The Boondock Saints," so much love for that film too.


End file.
